


verbatim

by signifier



Series: The Chronicles of Los Santos [12]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: FAHC, LOTS of violence, M/M, Mention of underage drinking, secret sunshine!, self hatred angst, talk of major character death, this got hella long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signifier/pseuds/signifier
Summary: verbatimadverb & adjective. in exactly the same words as were used originallyorFour times Michael met the Vagabond + the one time he met Ryan.





	verbatim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thisiswhatmylifehasbecome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thisiswhatmylifehasbecome/gifts).



> secret sunshine for my guy void <33 i hope u enjoy!

_I knew you before we met,_

_And I don’t even know you yet._

_All I know is your someone I’ve always known._

-

i

Adrenaline.

Running his life, coursing through his blood as he weaved, dodged, jabbed and struck out at the competition in front of him. 

Michael lived his life fuelled by it. 

He’d felt it in his veins the day he’d left New Jersey, abandoning his job and apartment for the small city he’d heard was on the rise - Los Santos, it was called, advertised with never a dull day and never a small life. 

And didn’t that sound good. 

So Michael went; hopped from train to train to get there before spending his days as a waiter and his nights in an apartment shittier than the one he’d left behind. 

His job fell through quickly - something about his bad service and attitude, but a co-worker, who’d always been a shifty kinda guy knew of a group that’d pay large when betting on fights. _Illegal_ , he’d whispered, _an illegal fighting ring late at night downtown_. He’d promised excitement and a group of guys tougher than he’d ever meet. 

He certainly didn’t disappoint. 

It was rough at first. Michael wasn’t the best and losing meant getting the shit beat out of you for free, but the more he went the more he learnt. He learnt that the bigger guys relied on brute force and that being quick was the way to win that fight. He learnt that the quicker guys liked pressure points, performing a dance as they took you down. He knew that Tom with the scar on his face was talented in different styles of fighting, knew to be on the defence when against him. 

The day Michael won his first fight was the day he truly understood what living in Los Santos meant. It meant being high on adrenaline until you died, and that was exactly how he wanted to live. 

He felt it now, up against one of the newer fighters of the ring. It mixed with the ache of his jaw and the sting of his knuckles, powered him on for a particularly vicious blow. 

Michael’s fist connected with his opponents temple and the man was out for the count. 

Cheers erupted from around him, the sound hitting him straight in the chest and replacing his aches with pride and excitement. Hands shook his own, pulled at his shoulders and patted any place they could reach in congratulations. For a moment, his head swam, the attention too much after being so focused but as it started to die down he remembered how to function, remembered to grin and respond to the people that had cheered his name until he was left standing with just a few of them. 

“That was one hell of a right hook.” 

Michael spun at the Georgia accent, chest heaving and grin still etched on his face from the adrenaline. 

Then he saw who he was talking to and the smile dropped instantly. 

The man the accent belonged to was tall, broad torso covered by a black and blue leather jacket. His arms were crossed against his chest, the material pulled tight around biceps that Michael guessed could do some serious damage. The most jarring part of his look was the black skull mask that covered his features, leaving only the blue of his eyes to be seen and almost complimented by the dark material. 

He was terrifying, to say the least, towering over Michael with an aura of power that the lad could only dream of having. 

Michael swallowed thickly, wondering what he must look like to his peers next to this tank of a human being. He wondered if they’d help him if he needed it. 

“Thank you. Not one of my best, but, it got the job done.” He shuffled on his feet, dropping his gaze before bringing it back up to meet those eyes. 

Playing it cool was the best way to get out of whatever this was unharmed. Michael hoped the nervous energy coming off his body wasn’t obvious. 

The man nodded, dropping his arms to place his hands in his pockets. Somehow, it didn’t make him any less intimidating. 

“You want to lean more of your weight into it, makes it more powerful.” He spoke matter-of-factly, tone steady like this was a normal conversation. His eyes shifted to something over Michael's shoulder, switching the weight of his legs in a way that suggested he was getting ready to leave. 

“I’ll-I’ll try that. Thanks.” Michael frowned, slightly put off by the whole situation. 

“You do that- sorry, what was your name?”

“Michael Jones.”

“You do that, Michael Jones.”

And then he was walking away, lightly brushing Michael's shoulder as he headed for whatever it was he’d been looking at. 

Michael turned, shook off the shock that the mask had put him under and watched as the man approached a short, well built, bald man that he recognised from the crowd every now and then. It was a man that had fought a few times, but Michael had never come up against him personally. He watched as they greeted each other and started to head off together, ignoring the stares and whispers that were directed their way. 

Then another fight was starting up and Michael found his thoughts redirected. 

-

Later that night, Michael watched as the news told of a rising threat to the city. They spoke of a small band of criminals pulling off robberies and hits, paired it with a blurred screenshot taken from the CCTV of a shop they targeted.

There was no mistaking that black mask.

-

ii

Michael had lived in Los Santos for a long time. Longer, in fact, than some of the threats it faced in present day. Due to this, he’d gotten used to his day being interrupted by heists and gang wars as they became more common in his everyday life. 

This didn’t make them any less annoying. 

He was next in line at the bank, having enough money to feel the need to own an account and not just have cash floating around his apartment. It felt serious and adult-like, as if these fights were a 9-5 job. Michael kinda liked that. 

The person in front of him finished up, allowing him to start to move forward, which was the exact moment that a gun shot went off. 

Michael automatically dropped to the floor, balancing on the balls of his feet as his heart hammered in his chest. He could hear heavy footsteps, the sounds of whimpers and anxiety surrounding him, another cock of a gun. 

“Right then, listen up!” The Kingpin. 

He risked a glance to his left, saw the immaculate suit and tattooed hand holding a pistol. 

“We’re gonna have this go real nice and smooth. All civilians to sit on the floor over there while I have a nice chat with this teller here.” The man continued, gesturing with his gun to the group of innocent people in the bank.

Michael turned his head away, wishfully thinking that if he didn’t look he couldn’t be noticed, but a strong hand was soon clamped on his shoulder and pulling him to his feet. He went easily, allowing himself to be directed. 

“It was Jones, right?” A familiar voice accompanied the grip on his body and Michael turned his head slightly, spotting the mask over his shoulder. 

“Right.” He hoped the nerves didn’t show in his voice. 

They must have, for the Vagabond leant in close and whispered, “relax. I’ve got you.”

He started to lead him towards the direction of the other civilians, using the other hand to herd them along. 

“I don’t think I ever got your name.”

There was a low chuckle before Michael was being turned around and light pressure was applied to his shoulder, a signal for him to sit down; which he did. 

“You’re funny.” The Vagabond responded, a compliment Michael was sure was only half genuine, before he was turning to join the rest of his crew. 

Despite his annoyance at the gangs in this city, it was sort of interesting to watch them work. The man in the suit, the Kingpin Michael was sure he was called, was clearly in charge with the way the other men looked to him for the next step. He gave his orders in a low tone, words Michael couldn’t make out but his men followed them without question before he turned to point his gun at the women behind the counter. 

The man in a floral shirt and the bald guy Michael recognised from some of his fights both headed for the door, the ginger walking out while the other stayed watch. He found himself thinking that these four outfits, the horrible colour combinations and the gimmicks were an awful decision if you were trying to avoid the police. Especially if you wore it daily, like he knew one of them did. 

Then The Vagabond was coming to stand beside the group of sitting people. His eyes tracked over each of their faces and Michael could have sworn there was something in the gaze that landed on him. 

“Be nice hostages, don’t try anything and you’ll all make it out alive.” 

There was an underlying tone to his voice that Michael barely caught, disappearing through the holes in his invisible net just as quickly as it had shown up. 

Then all there was to do was wait. 

For someone who lived in his mind, because you had to when living in Los Santos, Michael had imagined himself a hostage many times before. He’d pictured himself getting jumped after a fight, a bag thrown over his head as he was forced into a van, later interrogated but he would never talk; or the chill of a gun to his temple, the prick of a knife to his back or his throat as he was told to keep quiet. He always pictured himself dying in those situations. 

Because he was alone. 

He didn’t have the orange and purple guy keeping watch or a man in a floral shirt to ready the getaway vehicle. Michael didn’t have the Vagabond making sure the hostages stayed quiet. All Michael had was himself, and a magnet for trouble that he couldn’t seem to shake. 

This was nothing like he imagined. 

The Vagabond was a heavy presence from where he stood not too far away, a large hunting knife on his belt that Michael had never noticed before, but there was a surprising lack of fear in his chest now as a Georgian ghost of a whisper urged him to _‘relax, I’ve got you’._

Or perhaps it was the Kingpin that was the cause of Michael’s ease, cracking jokes towards the teller and turning to the man watching the door in disappointment when she didn’t laugh. 

Michael looked at them all, _truly_ looked at them, and tried to find the same annoyance he’d held towards the crews before this, but all he brought up was a feeling he couldn’t quite place. He caught the eyes of the Vagabond and quickly glanced away at being seen before looking back and once again staring straight into that blue. 

The man shifted on his feet, his chest inhaling like he was going to speak before a bullet hit the wood of the bank door and sparked chaos. 

Michael watched as the muscle by the door ducked, pulled out a gun and started firing back, shouting questions and urges that he couldn’t hear over the sound of bullets and screams from the people beside him. 

From outside, there was the screech of tires and firing of guns as the police attempted to come down hard - a battle Michael was sure they were going to lose. 

“Backdoor!” The shorter one called out, already running from his post with gun in hand as he went. The Kingpin was hot on his tail, lose bills flying from the quickly closed bag as he went. 

The Vagabond on the other hand, forever one for the dramatics as Michael would come to learn, jogged past him, throwing out a ‘see you around, Jones’, before he too was taking off at a run. 

_ See you around, Jones. _

The words echoed in Michael’s mind as the LSPD asked their questions, replacing all of the crews identifiable features as an odd feeling settled in his chest. 

-

iii

The Fake’s mercenary popped up in his life quite often after that; not that Michael enjoyed the man’s company or anything, but it was kind of nice, like having a weird, murdering guardian angel of sorts. 

The Vagabond watched him fight sometimes, bet big with money that Michael could only dream of. He interrupted Michael’s everyday life with heists and jobs, a gleam to his eye that suggested he very much enjoyed the way they keep running into each other. Michael glared back with ease before returning home and smiling something soft and warm as he looks at the mugshot on the TV. 

He was walking back to his apartment after a fight when he heard it; a choked groan and slight pant. Michael paused in his money count to whip his head up and scan the area. 

“That was a good fight.” The Vagabond complimented, tone suggesting he’s very close to either passing out or throwing up. 

There was one hand leaning against the wall, the other pressed to his stomach. He was lightly shaking, and suddenly his knees buckled and he slumped heavily against the wall. It was dark, but there was no question that he was caked in blood. Michael moved on instinct, by his side in seconds to help lower him all the way to the ground. When he touched him, his hands come away sticky and warm. 

“Looks like you had a good one too. I’d hate to see the other guy.” 

That got him a pained laugh. 

“Yeah, you would.” The words were barely spoken, eyes shut as if he had fallen asleep. 

Michael frowned, ignoring the way the rocks on the floor bit through his jeans as he settled next to the Vagabond. He started to move his hands towards the other man’s face, stuttered in his movement for a second before committing and getting his fingers under the edge of that mask. 

He felt stubble, surprise seeping through his concern before a hand shot up and wrapped around his wrist. 

Michael gasped, looking down at the wrist and then up, his own eyes meeting blue. Even in the dark, glassy with pain and exhaustion, the Vagabonds eyes were like staring into the nights sky. 

There’s a memory suddenly, bubbling in the back of his mind, of being 17 in New Jersey and laying in a field, staring straight up at the stars. The streetlights had just turned off, but he hadn’t cared because his friends were lying next to him, laughing and singing as they drank stolen liquor. 

It is a beautiful thing to be in the presence of, Michael decided. 

The grip on his wrist was weak, slippery with the voice to match as it pleaded, “don’t. Please.” 

“Okay.” He whispered back. 

Michael moved his hands, the Vagabonds hand staying on his own as he settled for applying pressure to the wound instead. He had no plan, hoped it wasn't not as bad as it seemed. He kept talking, kept him responsive and awake. 

“What happened?” 

There was a shift, a wince and a swallow before the reply. “Was meant to be meeting with a new ally but it was an ambush instead. Fuckers all jumped me. One of them had a knife.” 

“That wasn’t very knife of him.” 

He felt the rumble of laughter under his hands, the Vagabond quickly dissolving into coughs before his own hands came up to cover Michael’s, aiming for the wound but landing on his fingers instead. 

“I can’t believe you’re making jokes on my deathbed. That was awful, I can’t wait to tell Jeremy that.” 

_Jeremy._

The Vagabond must be in pain, because Michael is almost certain he wasn’t supposed to have heard that. He’s almost tempted to use this lack of filter to ask some questions, _ask for a name,_ but he doesn’t want to be on the receiving end when the mercenary recovers and remembers all of this. _If he does,_ a small voice in his head said. 

“Deathbed? God, don’t make me say a eulogy, I’m shit at funerals.” 

“You think you’re worthy of being invited?” 

“I’m holding your stomach together, so I’m gonna say yes to that.” 

Another chuckle, another wince. 

“You gotta stop making me laugh, I’ll die.” 

“All the more reason.” 

“You’re an asshole.” But one of his hands weakly started to intertwine their fingers together. 

Michael’s voice was incredibly gentle when he replied. “You like it, though.” 

“Yeah.” The Vagabond sighed. 

They both grew quiet then, and Michael was hit with how deeply soft and sad their situation was – fingers curled together as they tried to keep one of them alive. 

Michael thought of the rest of the Fakes, of them waiting wherever they are for their crew member to return. He wondered if they were close – if they’d care. He wondered if they’d just hire someone new. The Fake AH Crew; Legends of Los Santos. Would they be the same without the Vagabond? 

Michael knew he wouldn’t. 

He could deny it all he wanted, but sometimes, only sometimes, when he’s alone and muttering to himself, because that’s how he copes in his shitty apartment, sometimes the replies come out in a Georgian accent. 

And when did that happen? When did this myth, this man that is almost never seen, this murderer become such a part of his life in this city? And when did Michael start to not mind? 

He redirected his thoughts, focused on the situation at hand. The Vagabonds hand had grown cold linked to his own. Michael made his decision. 

“I’m going to call an ambulance.” 

“I don’t need one.” The argument came out ironically weak. 

“Yes, you do, you stubborn dick.” He shifted onto the balls of his feet, the ache of sitting in one position for so long matching the wince the Vagabond gives as they accidentally press down harder.

“You think I’m gonna die.” He grit. 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

“I’m growing a little worried.” 

“Well, if this is how I die then it’s not a bad way to go. Awfully good view.” He muttered, dull eyes scrunching up with such a fond look that Michael felt a deep sense of sadness at the words. 

“Don’t say that. You’re going to be fine; I’m going to call help.” Michael swallowed the upset in his tone, turned to get up but a bloody hand gripped the front of his shirt, pulled him in so close that he could almost feel the warmth of the other man’s breath through the mask. 

The Vagabond took a second, eyes growing unfocused as he swallowed. “Don’t go.” 

Michael released the hand with ease, placed it back on the other man’s wound and pressed down. He ignored the grunt of pain, let his own warm hand linger over the Vagabond’s cold one. 

“I’ll be right back. I got you, I promise.” 

And then he was running, fully sprinting, which he hadn't done since track at school, to the nearest payphone. He made an anonymous call, ran back. 

By the time he returned The Vagabond was gone, a small dark stain being the only evidence he was even there in the first place. 

-

iv

There had been no sign of the Vagabond for a few months after Michael had found him bleeding out and Michael wouldn’t admit it, but he’d missed the deep accent coming out of the shadows and the delicious feeling of danger that came from being in his presence. 

He’d tried to give the man opportunities to show up; made his routine more obvious, stayed a little later after a fight, walked so painfully slow that he felt a little stupid to be putting himself out like this. 

The Vagabond was, _is,_ a dangerous man, and Michael should be glad that he can return to his somewhat normal life, but the truth of the situation was that Michael liked the risk, liked knowing that he was someone one of the Kingpins men had an interest in, and Michael couldn’t deny the fond connection he'd felt the last time they'd met.

But the Fakes weren’t on his mind tonight. 

Michael had been robbed, cheated, out of his winnings this night; the dull throb of his injuries providing an embarrassing burn as he grumbled and made his way to the one place he could have privacy and peace. 

For all the security the Maze Bank had, it was awfully easy to get to the roof. Michael spent his nights there sometimes, staring at the lights of the city and enjoying being so cut off from the world. He liked to watch as they slowly flickered out as the night grew longer. Once, he’d stayed long enough to watch them all go out and come back on again. It had been a bad night, but the adrenaline rush from escaping in the early hours of the morning before security could find him had been worth it. 

He went on his usual route, still wound up tight as he pushed the door to the roof open and stepped into the nights air. 

It was cold on the rooftop, or maybe it wasn’t but the outline of the Vagabond against the lights of the city was enough to light the spark of goosebumps that travelled down Michael’s back. 

Michael had never been particularly frightened of the Fakes, found them to be annoying at times with the way they were constantly in his life, but seeing the Vagabond illuminated against the skylight, silent and unmoving as he looked down upon the city, _his city,_ it reminded Michael of why so many people feared them. They were a powerful group, could have someone gone without a trace just for spreading a bad word and they hadn’t even been around that long. A few months and Los Santos was putty in their hands. It was something Michael sometimes dreamt that he was a part of, but he could settle for sitting back and watching it happen if it meant he could keep running into the Vagabond. 

He let the door to the stairs close behind him as he walked across the rooftop, coming to stand beside the taller man.

And there was so much he wanted to say, _I missed you,_ but he doesn't, _I missed you and I was scared you asshole,_ because it's sort of peaceful just standing in the silence together.

And it was peaceful, for a while, nothing but the sound of the wind rustling their clothing and the city life below. But then, Michael had never been one for peaceful. 

“This is all very Batmany, y’know, looking down upon Gotham.”

That earned Michael a scoff and a slight shake of the head. When the Vagabond spoke, his voice was fragile in a way he hadn't heard it before. “I’m no Batman.”

It almost took him back for a second, the slight self-hating, judgmental tone that accompanied the words, but Michael knew how it felt to regret the things that had gotten you to where you are now. He knew that the thought of what you’d done and who you’d hurt would never leave you. They haunted you, mocked you in your darkest moments and had the audacity to stick around for your brightest ones too. Michael heard the sound of flesh hitting bone daily at this point, his own knuckles tingling even when he wasn’t the one causing the violence. 

Michael knew it could make you question your own humanity.

He took a deep breath, shifted slightly to match the Vagabonds position of leaning against the railing. “You both wear masks, I’d say thats close enough.”

The Vagabond looked at him then, and it had been so long since Michael had seen those eyes that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be pinned under their gaze.

“You like what you do?” He asked, head cocking to the side. 

Michael frowned. “The fights?” 

“Yeah.”

“It’s what I’m good at.” 

“But do you like it?” The man pushed. 

“I..No, but it keeps me alive. I guess I just focus on that.” 

The Vagabond hummed, turning back to look out across the city. It was easy to feel small up on the rooftop with the lights below flicking in and out, each being controlled by someone with a life and set of connections not much unlike what Michael had. He’d spent countless hours sitting in silence, listening to the sounds of ambulances and police cars and making up stories about what they were heading towards - domestic cases, suicides, gun fights and accidents; he’d check the news the next day and see if he was right. It was easy, with the dark of the night crowding your thoughts and the cold wind biting at fresh cuts, to feel impossibly insignificant in the city of Los Santos. 

“What about you, huh? You like living your life on the edge?” Michael returned, risking a glance over the railing as his mind drifts to their last meeting.

“I didn’t think I would but, this crew,” he paused, seemed to be smiling under that mask of his, “it’s fun. Good. They make me feel like we’re doing these things for the right reasons. It’s not perfect, and we’re not complete; Geo-The Kingpin knows that, but it just feels..better, with them.”

He looked at Michael once more, a soft and thoughtful gleam in his eyes. “Do you understand what I mean?” 

Michael didn’t. 

But hell, he craved it. He wanted to be involved, wanted to know these people and complete them. Michael didn’t want to be the one watching the news, staring in awe at the heists he could only dream of committing - he wanted to be one of the near static images on the screen, guns smoking and grin wide as ever as he flipped off the camera. Michael wanted the excitement and the adrenaline and The Vagabond at his back. 

The back alley fights and lack of loyalty weren’t going to last forever. He wanted stability. 

There was a lot of things Michael wanted. 

“Yeah,” he swallowed dryly, “I understand.”

They stood silent for a while after that, pretended it was the cold that had them pressed together. 

“We’re looking to expand.” The Vagabond broke the silence. 

A sudden breeze had Michael shivering, pressing his arm more firmly against the taller mans. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. We need someone good on tech for a job we’ve got planned.” He began, and Michael wondered how much of this he was allowed to be telling, wondered if he remembered Jeremy's name slipping out in his pained haze. He wondered how much of that night he remembered.

“Could do with another bruiser, too.” 

This time, the shiver that run up Michael’s spine wasn’t from the cold. 

“That..I’m sure that would help.” 

“Well if your fight club ever falls through, I’m sure you’ll find me somewhere.”

Michael could hear the suggestion in the tone and suddenly everything he wanted and everything he was scared of was slamming into him with full force. 

He didn’t dare look at him, didn’t want those eyes to betray the words. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He demanded, excitement bubbling in his chest. 

“What I’m saying is, we could use the extra muscle, if you’re interested.” The Vagabond offered, pushing away from the railing and heading back towards the stairs. His mouth was covered, but Michael could hear the smirk in his words. 

For a second, he was stunned by the proposition before his brain registered what he was being offered. 

“Was that a job offer?” He demanded, whipping round just in time to watch the Vagabond start to head down the stairs. “Hey! Don’t just drop something like that and walk away from me!” 

The Vagabond kept walking. 

“Asshole.” Michael whispered into the night, biting back a smile.

-

v

Life with the Fakes was everything Michael had hoped for. 

He fit in perfectly with Jeremy’s reckless nature, bounced off of Gavin’s charm with ease all while having the same regard for a tidy board room that Jack and Geoff shared. It was nice, having a group of people that he felt like he truly belonged with. Michael could recall a time he’d wished for loyalty and the excitement of a crew, his picture up on the news next to the Vagabond’s, and wasn’t it everything he had wanted?

Working with the Vagabond was different to meeting him in passing. There were times when they’d leave a job together, Michael having no idea where he stood with the other man who was like ice as he drove, a cold detachment living like a parasite in a heist, but there was that same, fond admiration to him that Michael had seen on blood stained concrete and a rooftop once before. It was the small things - the way he would answer Gavin’s ridiculous questions when nobody else would, the teasing quips so often shared with Jack and the want to provide whatever the crew needed. They were all so close and Michael didn’t want to curse a good thing, but he could see the way they were all becoming closer with him too. 

He realised just how invested he’d become the night a name was slipped so easily into conversation.

Michael had just finished a meeting with another crew, Gavin hot on his tail through the door. The brit immediately approached the rest of the crew, already sprouting a fast string of information and deals as he went. Michael, on the other hand, glanced around the space in search of only one person.

“Ryan’s downstairs.” Jeremy called, catching the way his eyes had wandered around the room. He directed Michael to a set of stairs with a nod of his head. 

_ Ryan. _

It was such a mundane name that for a second, Michael had no idea who Jeremy was referring to. Then he took another glance around the room and noticed the one part of the crew that wasn’t present. 

“Thanks.” He breathed, turning and heading out the door before anyone could notice the look on his face. 

Because how long had he been waiting to meet _Ryan?_ How many times had he imagined what the mercenary looked like with those blue eyes and hint of stubble? 

He could hear Ryan before he saw him, the sound of grunts and a swaying punching bag letting Michael know he was going in the right direction. He rounded the corner just in time to see Ryan throw a particularly powerful blow.

“That was one hell of a right hook.” He called out, unable to stop himself.

Ryan paused, shoulders rising and falling as he panted before he turned around and Michael wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting the Vagabond to look like underneath the black skull mask, but he should have guessed he’d be just as nice to look at as those eyes. 

He had dirty blonde hair that was slightly longer than average and light scruff lined his jaw. There were bandages wrapped around his hands, sweat dripped down his face and Michael was still a little overwhelmed by his presence.

“You want to lean more of your weight into it, though. Makes it more powerful.” 

Ryan frowned, hand coming up to steady the bag before recognition flickers in his eyes. “Yeah? Where’d you hear that?”

“Just some guy I met once.”

“Sounds like a smart guy.”

“He was alright.”

“Alright!” Ryan exclaimed, finally turning his body around to face Michael completely. He looked fit, shirt tight around his arms in a way his jacket could never do justice. There was sweat on his neck, his face a little red. 

Michael shrugged, feeling the shit eating grin starting to form. “He had a real annoying habit of only showing up when he wanted to, being all mysterious and shit; y’know he held me hostage once? Locked me in a vault and flirted while he did it. Such an asshole. Not to mention that dollar store, halloween mask he wears-“

The Vagabond was kissing him. 

And Michael had dreamt of this moment for longer than he’d admit to, had dreamt of reaching up and pulling off that mask and kissing The Vagabond, but that wasn’t who he was kissing. It was Ryan. 

Ryan was so impossibly gentle for someone shutting another person up that it was difficult to connect him to the mad mercenary at all. He had one hand on the side of Michael’s neck, rough and warm on his skin from the work out while the other was placed on his waist, fingers curled into his shirt like they had curled into his own once upon a time in a favourite memory. His lips were soft, practically ghosting against Michael’s as they stole the words from his throat and the breath from his lungs. 

Then he was pulling away, removing his hands and turning his back as his fingertips floated to his lips. 

Michael took a moment to catch his own breath, try to steady his own voice before speaking. 

“You make a habit of kissing crew members?”

That got him a laugh - a real laugh, not one laced with pain or muffled by material. “Only the ones I like.”

“Oh, good.” 

Ryan turned to face him again, seemed to be lost in thought for a moment before he opened his mouth to speak. 

Which was the exact moment that Jack stuck his head around the corner and announced, “Gavin wants to go over that crew you met today; get your asses up here.”

They both nodded, watched as Jack disappeared again before turning back to one another. Ryan looked pained at their interruption. 

“We can talk later,” Michael offered, “besides, I know where to find you now.” 

“God, I’m never getting rid of you am I?”

“Nope.”

A light chuckle. “Good.”

Their eyes met as they walked down the corridor, offering each other a smile so secret it almost wasn’t there, and Michael couldn’t help but feel robbed of all the smiles meant for him that had been hidden under that mask. He thought of their first meeting, of being terrified of the man that had approached him. He thought of their hands clasped on a cold night, covered in blood as they comforted each other. Michael thought of the Vagabond; of what it was going to be like beside him, to learn his tricks and tactics, something he had longed for once before. There would be time for that later, but for now? 

Michael wanted to be beside Ryan. 


End file.
